e of matters became rapidly insupportable; and Denis, to put an end
to it, remarked politely that the wind had gone down.

The old gentleman fell into a fit of silent laughter, so prolonged and
violent that he became quite red in the face. Denis got upon his feet at
once, and put on his hat with a flourish.

"Sir," he said, "if you are in your wits, you have affronted me grossly.
If you are out of them, I flatter myself I can find better employment
for my brains than to talk with lunatics. My conscience is clear; you
have made a fool of me from the first moment; you have refused to hear
my explanations; and now there is no power under God will make me stay
here any longer; and if I cannot make my way out in a more decent
fashion, I will hack your door in pieces with my sword."

The Sire de Maletroit raised his right hand and wagged it at Denis with
the fore and little fingers extended.

"My dear nephew," he said, "sit down."

"Nephew!" retorted Denis, "you lie in your throat"; and he snapped his
fingers in his face.

"Sit down, you rogue!" cried the old gentleman, in a sudden, harsh
voice, like the barking of a dog. "Do you fancy," he went on, "that when
I made my little contrivance for the door I had stopped short with that?
If you prefer to be bound hand and foot till your bones ache, rise and
try to go away. If you choose to remain a free young buck, agreeably
conversing with an old gentleman--why, sit where you are in peace, and
God be with you."

"Do you mean I am a prisoner?" demanded Denis.

"I state the facts," replied the other. "I would rather leave the
conclusion to yourself."

Denis sat down again. Externally he managed to keep pretty calm; but
within, he was now boiling with anger, now chilled with apprehension. He
no longer felt convinced that he was dealing with a madman. And if the
old gentleman was sane, what, in God's name, had he to look for? What
absurd or tragical adventure had befallen him? What countenance was he
to assume?

While he was thus unpleasantly reflecting, the arras that overhung the
chapel door was raised, and a tall priest in his robes came forth, and;
giving a long, keen stare at Denis, said something in an undertone to
Sire de Maletroit.

"She is in a better frame of spirit?" asked the latter.

"She is more resigned, messire," replied the priest.

"Now the Lord help her, she is hard to please!" sneered the old
gentleman. "A likely stripling--not ill-born--and of her